


Naturalization

by scheherazade



Category: Tennis RPF
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Childhood Friends, Friends to Lovers, M/M, Slow Build
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-12-18
Updated: 2016-12-18
Packaged: 2018-08-22 21:07:23
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,440
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8301062
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/scheherazade/pseuds/scheherazade
Summary: Novak was always smiling, and Andy had never seemed like someone destined for happiness anyway.[Alternate reality where Novak chose to play for Great Britain.]





	

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Sybill](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sybill/gifts).



> dear sybill: happy yuletide! this is a story i've been wanting to write for years, and actually started kicking around a long time ago, which is why it spans the timeline it does (i.e. stops at 2012).

They met at a tournament in May of 1999. It was a warm morning, just enough breeze to make Andy’s hair stick up at odd angles whenever he took off his hat. His opponent was a boy named Novak. Andy won in straight sets.

“Good game,” Andy said as they shook hands at the net.

Novak frowned a little, as if concentrating, before he said, “You play good.” Then he grinned. “But next time I beat you.”

And before Andy could respond to that, Novak ran off to find his parents. Andy watched him go — all four-foot-ten of skinny legs and bird-like shoulders, a racquet nearly too big for his eleven-year-old frame. By comparison, Andy felt about six feet tall.

His own mum was waiting for him by the stands. Andy squirmed away from the kiss she tried to plant on his cheek and turned to Jamie. “That was good, wasn’t it?”

His brother shrugged. “Can we get lunch now? I’m starving.”

“Hotel first,” their mum said. “Get Andy changed and put the bags away. Come on, then.”

In the car, Jamie put on his headphones and tuned the world out. Andy sat with his knees pressed to the seat in front of him, looked out the window for sparrows darting between the trees, and wondered why Jamie was mad at him now.

 

* * *

 

The first time Novak asked him to play doubles, they were twelve, and it took nearly an hour between Novak’s broken English, Andy’s own confusion, and Jamie being completely unhelpful complaining that his brother was supposed to play with _him_ , not some Serbian kid with asthma and a forehand volley that made even _Andy_ look good by comparison.

They lost 6-0, 6-1 to a pair of Americans. Novak just laughed and said that they would win next time. Usually Andy hated thinking about “next time” — he wanted to win _now_ — but with Novak, it was okay. Andy wouldn’t mind playing more doubles with him, even if he did have asthma and couldn’t win a point at net to save his skinny life.

 

* * *

 

“I want to see the park,” Novak said one day in London, so Andy went with him.

Novak liked to climb trees. Andy, being the more responsible one, kept his feet on the ground and watched as the other boy disappeared into the quivering mass of leaves above. After a while he started getting a crick in his neck so he sat down with his back against the trunk. Tilted his head up to keep an eye out for Novak.

Whose head and shoulders appeared, suddenly, draped over a low-hanging branch. He grinned down at Andy, motioning for him to come up. Andy shook his head. Novak stuck out his tongue at him — ”You are like girl,” — until Andy chucked an acorn at his grinning face.

Novak was still the same as when Andy had met him, two years ago now. Same laugh, same cockiness, same stupid forehand and asthma, still. Novak had skipped a couple of tournaments lately; when she heard, Andy’s mum had said, in a very serious voice, that not all boys were as lucky as him.

“Hey,” Novak said suddenly. “Hey, Andy. Swear me something.”

Andy frowned. “What?”

“Swear me — how you say? Make promise.” Novak started to gesticulate, wobbled, and hastily put his hands back to regain his balance. “Promise me.”

“Okay. Promise you what?”

“Promise,” said Novak, “if you, or me, we are famous. If you win Wimbledon. Promise we are friends still. For always, yes?”

And this was a different Novak, suddenly: this Novak with the serious voice and dark, serious eyes. He was leaning so far over the branch Andy was scared he might fall any moment. But so was Novak — and for perhaps the first time, Andy realized that Novak, too, was lonely; afraid.

So he said, “Okay. I promise.”

 

* * *

 

The next year, Andy went to Barcelona, met Dani and Carlos. Novak went to Italy, to Germany; Andy’s mum kept him updated with what she heard. Novak was doing well, better than expected.

“You’re like an old hen, asking after other people’s health,” Jamie snorted when he overheard.

Andy didn’t bother trying to explain that this was different. Because this was Novak, and he’d promised. Because they were friends.

 

* * *

 

In Glasgow, he got a text from Novak asking if he wanted to meet up, it had been a while. Andy looked at the clock, looked back at his phone. He had the day off, he knew. But he also knew what Jamie would say about fraternizing with the enemy.

He texted back, _Hi nole, sure when you wanna meet_

His brother didn’t have to know.

Thirty minutes later, he went down to the bus stop. The last time he’d seen Novak was at a Challenger in America. Novak had grown up a bit, but his sense of humor was the same as ever, and Andy thought that he probably shouldn’t be as relieved as he was, to find the Novak of his memories so unchanged.

“You make me take the bus, Andy?” The corners of Novak’s eyes crinkled when he smiled. “I get recognized now, you know. I have fans.”

Andy rolled his eyes. “Doubt your fan club’s made it to Glasgow.”

Just to be sure, he made them wait for a bus that wasn’t quite as crowded as the first.

“So how was Spain?” Novak asked, peering outside at the passing streets.

Andy stretched out his legs as far as he could beneath the row of seats in front. “Good. Nice facilities and such.” He scuffed his shoe against the floor. “Missed home a bit. How’s.... Where are you now?”

“Monte Carlo.” Novak shrugged. “But, I don’t know. Maybe I move soon.”

“Getting your own place?”

Novak gave him a funny look. “Maybe.” He looked outside again. “Was our stop, no? You trying to lose me so you don't have to play me tomorrow?”

“I wouldn’t do that,” Andy said too quickly. He made a face at the smirk Novak turned on him. “It’s the next stop. And I can beat you fair and square.”

Novak bumped his shoulder. “I know,” he said. “You always did.”

 

* * *

 

In April 2006, Serbia and Montenegro defeated Great Britain in the Davis Cup, thanks in no small part to a standout performance from nineteen-year-old Novak Djokovic. Rumors began to spread that the LTA had initiated talks with the Serbian teenager, potentially, about a move to the UK.

On June 5th, Serbia submitted a formal declaration of independence from Montenegro.

In July, Novak Djokovic announced that he had applied for a British passport and would be representing his new country come January of next year.

 

* * *

 

The next time they saw each other was Madrid, in October. _Come hit with me,_ said Novak, and Andy went.

The practice courts were mostly empty, this early in the morning. They walked side by side in companionable silence. Andy could’ve lived with that, could’ve lived with not bringing up anything about citizenship or passports or Serbia — but Novak beat him to it.

“I’m sorry I didn't tell you.”

It took Andy a moment to catch up with the abrupt conversation starter. “Oh. Well, it’s,” he stumbled over the half-formed sentence. “It was your choice. You know.”

“But the reporters.” Novak sounded rueful. “They keep asking you. I read about it. I am sorry.”

“It’s okay,” said Andy. Then, because Novak had brought it up first, “What made you decide, anyway?”

“My federation — the Serbian federation have no money.” Novak scanned the numbered plaques on the courts, looking for the one they’d been assigned. “It was hard. But it was the best choice.”

“You can’t play Davis Cup anymore.”

“Only for three years. This is better for my family. For Mare and Djole, too. They have more support, in England. More opportunity.”

Andy shifted the strap of the tennis bag over his shoulder. “You did it for them?”

“For all of us. And also now we are teammates.” Novak grinned at him, quick as a flash of sun on wire. He pointed toward court number five. “Here.”

“Okay,” said Andy. After a moment, he added, “Don’t think Jamie would ever do something like that for me.”

Novak paused with one hand on the gate, pushed half open, the empty tennis court beyond. He looked back at Andy with a strange expression, somewhere between confusion and affection.

“He would,” Novak said gently. “He is your brother.”

 

* * *

 

In 2008, Novak Djokovic ended Great Britain’s 76-year grand slam drought by defeating Jo-Wilfried Tsonga 4-6, 6-4, 6-3, 7-6 to claim the Australian Open crown. That same year, Andy Murray made it to the US Open final, where he lost to Roger Federer in three quick sets.

Novak would make his Davis Cup debut for Great Britain finally in 2009, in a narrow 3-2 win over Poland. Andy sat out the tie, reportedly due to a shoulder injury.

In 2010, Great Britain cruised to the World Group play-offs, despite the team missing their natural singles two in every tie. Injury, exhaustion, another injury. The papers grumbled that the real injury was to Murray’s head. Waste of talent, waste of time. Thank god for Djokovic, sang page after page of editorial. Britain’s son by spirit, if not (unfortunately) by birth.

 

* * *

 

Andy had barely put his bags down, in New York, when there came a pounding at his door. He opened it to discover a scowling Novak. Who pushed past without so much as a by-your-leave, planting himself in the middle of Andy’s hotel room with his hands on his hips.

Andy closed the door. “Hi?”

“Hi,” said Novak. “You tell me now why you’ve been avoiding me?”

“I— Sorry?”

“I have been calling you all week, to ask about Davis Cup. Play-off in two weeks, you remember? Or you not playing this one either?”

Andy shrugged. “What does it matter? We’re playing Germany. Even Jamie could take them.”

Novak threw out his arms in frustration. “What, just because you think you are not needed now? So you will do nothing?”

“It’s called efficient.”

“It is called your responsibility!”

Andy stared; he’d never heard Novak yell before. Not at him. Even if he deserved it, maybe — but he'd never asked for this.

The slow-burning resentment of the last two years sparked, flaring all the fiercer for how much he'd never wanted, couldn't bear to admit it out loud: that sometimes, all too many times — walking off a court to lukewarm applause, walking away from the press and their questions about someone else's historic victory, walking like a man in a dream that no longer belonged to him, because Novak had taken the leading role — sometimes, Andy knew that he was just as petty as his brother.

Sometimes, he wished that Novak didn't exist.

Like now, as Novak went on, "It is called you are not only playing for you. You know this! How can you act this way, like we do not all know this? You have always—"

“ _You_ want to lecture me about patriotism?” The vitriol boiled in his throat. Andy didn't care. He never asked for this. “You know, if I remember rightly, I’m not the one who left my country for money and an easier life.” 

Novak flushed visibly. “You take that back. You don’t know—”

“And you think _you_ know what it’s like? You’ve had that passport for what, four years? When I’ve had this on me since I was old enough to swing a racquet and already I was supposed to be the LTA’s bloody messiah. Fifteen years of that. _Fifteen years_ — then suddenly they’ve got you, so I suppose that’s all right now.”

“I was—” Novak clenched his hands into fists. “I did not come to replace you!”

“Well, good job you came anyway! Because all I do is bottle it every time it counts, right? So good job giving them something good to focus on, finally. But you know, I’ll just stick around for when everybody needs a bit of controversy. Still got to blame somebody for the state of British tennis, right? And that’s what _I’m_ good for, isn’t it?”

Novak’s flush had paled until, by the time Andy stopped to take a breath, his expression was reduced to a stricken look of helplessness.

“That is not true,” Novak whispered. “I would never do that.”

“Wouldn’t you?” The anger was still tight in his chest. “Because that’s pretty much what you did.”

“No. No, Andy. Please.”

Novak stepped forward, reaching for Andy’s shoulders. Andy jerked back and away from his touch. Novak rolled with the motion, hands settling around Andy’s wrists instead as he stumbled, going down on one knee.

“Please, listen,” he pleaded. “We promised, you remember? We promised to not do this.”

“That was different.”

“But I meant it always,” said Novak. “I meant it, Andy. _Please_.”

Andy stared down at him. The plea lingered between them, a plaintive note repeating itself in Novak’s too-honest face and the way he was still holding Andy’s hands, eyes turned upward, the way saints and angels prayed. He hated that Novak could do this to him.

He hated that _he_ could do this to his best friend.

“Get up,” Andy said finally, yanking his arms away.

Novak put his hand on the wall for support. Then, slowly, unfolded himself from the carpet. Andy opened the door,

“Get out.”

Novak hesitated. Andy didn’t move until Novak finally caved. But once in the hall, turned back again with desperately needing eyes. “Andy, please listen to me—”

“I’ll play against Germany,” Andy said.

Then he shut the door — but not before seeing the smile break like dawn over the open book of Novak’s face.

 

* * *

 

In September 2010, Great Britain beat Germany 4-1 to win promotion to the World Group for the first time since Henman’s retirement. Andy Murray won both his singles, as well as the doubles, partnering his brother Jamie. Novak cheered them on from the sidelines, smiling in every photograph.

 

* * *

 

“Let’s make a bet,” Novak said, as they watched James Ward take on Mayer in the dead rubber.

“Okay,” Andy agreed, only half-listening. “What?”

“If we win Davis Cup, we all have to shave our heads.”

Andy blinked. Looked away from the match to stare at him.

“All of the team,” Novak amended, for clarification. “Like monks.”

“Don’t think the coach’ll be too keen on that idea,” said Andy after a long, strangled silence.

“He does not have to like it, he is not the one playing,” Novak said dismissively. “You and me. We can win all the singles and doubles.”

“Yeah, because overplaying sounds like a _brilliant_ idea,” Andy muttered. He put his head down on his arms, propped against the railing. “I’ll really have to shave my head if we win?”

“Of course. If you say you will.”

Andy glanced up at Novak. “Yeah,” he said, because that much at least was true.

 

* * *

 

On January 24, 2011, Novak Djokovic and Andy Murray played the first all-British grand slam final of the Open Era. Novak won in straight sets to claim his second Australian Open. He would go on to win two more slams that year and, in the process, tie John McEnroe’s 42-match winning streak. Andy would win Queens and Cincy, and lose three consecutive slam semifinals to Rafael Nadal.

 _I’m happy for Novak,_ he told the press over and over until they grew satisfied that he was, in fact, sincere. _He’s achieved so much, it’s incredible. He’s my friend, a great guy and a great tennis player. And we’re playing Davis Cup, so it’s good to have a great partner._

In Davis Cup, Great Britain swept Croatia 5-0. Against France in the quarterfinal, Novak paired up with Andy for the doubles after Jamie sprained his ankle the morning of; they won, narrowly. Afterwards, Novak hugged him — for just a split second too long, perhaps — and said, _Thank you._ Andy didn’t ask him what he meant.

 

* * *

 

“Don’t be stupid,” said Jamie over the phone. “Of course you and Novak should play doubles against Spain. When’s the last time we won a match together, do you even remember?”

Andy opened his mouth to protest, but Jamie hadn’t waited for him to respond.

“Anyway, you’re not going to beat Rafa, and if it comes down to a deciding rubber on clay, against a Spaniard, in Spain — we’ve just got to win the doubles, all right? You and Novak have gotten pretty good together.”

Andy snorted. “Still remember the first time I played with him? You threw a fit.”

“I was trying to help you,” Jamie said defensively. “Anyway, that was then. And Smith will say the same as me, if you ask him. It makes sense.”

“Course, because you’re always right.” Andy didn’t bother masking the sarcasm in his voice. Jamie just laughed at him. “When’re you leaving? Tomorrow?”

“Tomorrow afternoon. And hey,” said Jamie. “You’ll be great, all right? I’ll see you in Spain.”

“Yeah. You, too.”

Andy ended the call and slipped the phone into his bag. He glanced at his watch: 9:57. Strange to think that, in less than twenty-four hours, Novak might have won his first US Open. His fourth grand slam.

 _Now boarding,_ came the voice over the intercom, _British Airways flight 1577 from New York to Seville. Now boarding at gate number twelve._

Andy picked up his bags. Some parts, he knew, you just had to shoulder on your own. Like making a decision. Like keeping a promise. Like winning, or losing, or making your peace with both.

 

* * *

 

On the first day of the Davis Cup semifinal, Novak lost to Rafa in straight sets, New York’s glittering memory faded into the red dust of Cordoba. Andy watched from the bench, knuckles clenched white against the partition.

“Sorry,” Novak whispered when he came off the court. Andy squeezed his shoulder. Picked up his own racquet.

The clay still felt foreign, after months on American hard courts, but Ferrer’s determination was familiar enough. Down two sets with barely sixty minutes gone, Andy glanced at the bench and saw Novak had returned to watch. The team jacket wrapped loose around his shoulders, eyes worried beneath the brim of his cap.

They’d promised. Andy grit his teeth. Broke Ferrer in the opening game, and ground out the rest of the set. Broke again to open the fourth, and the bench rose as one, cheering; Novak’s voice lifted above the rest.

It wasn’t enough. He double-faulted to give back the break at 4-3. Got broken again for 4-5. Rafa applauded as Ferrer stepped up to serve for the match.

15-love. Verdasco and Lopez were watching, relaxed, the pressure on their doubles performance easing by the minute. 

30-love. He envied them. He and Novak both. 

30-15. No one had ever asked either of them, had they, if this was really what they wanted? Novak was always smiling, and Andy had never seemed like someone destined for happiness anyway. 

40-15. No one had thought to ask.

_Game, set, match: Spain._

 

* * *

 

“It hurts,” Novak said later that night. He was lying on Andy’s bed, one arm over his eyes as if that could hide his pain. “My back. My side. I couldn’t move today. It’s getting worse since New York.”

Andy sat down carefully beside him. “You shouldn’t play tomorrow.”

“I have to.” Novak dropped his arm. “I have to, Andy. I promised I would play for Great Britain as much as I would for Serbia. And I will.”

“Nobody’s asking you to kill yourself. I can play with Jamie.”

“No. You have to play with me,” said Novak, eyes deadly serious. “And we have to win.”

 

* * *

 

Because Novak knew what it felt like, too, to carry the weight of dreams beyond your own, burdens he’d never asked for or wanted. He knew, just like Andy, that this was the debt of the lucky ones. But that was all he knew. Because if it hurt to have that expectation ripped from you, as unwilling as it had been given, well — at least Andy had known respite.

But Novak— He’d put on a brave face for the rest of the team, determined to play the doubles, though Andy could see the pain growing worse, now, game by game. And it wasn’t Novak’s fault they were down two sets and a break; Verdasco and Lopez had suddenly found their 2008 form again.

Lopez put another neat volley beyond Andy’s reach and Spain were up 5-3. Novak all but limped to the bench. Andy grabbed water bottles for the both of them, sat by Novak as Smith rattled off tactical points for the next game, and their teammates murmured encouragement from the box.

They might have saved their breath. He accepted the first ball offered to him. Took a second to tuck into his pocket.

Andy glanced at Verdasco. Bounced the ball once, twice, served it down the middle and rushed the net. Verdasco rifled it cross court; Andy had just enough time to lunge for it and miss. Love-15. Novak followed him back to the service line, frowning.

“His backhand,” said Novak.

Andy nodded, not looking at him. “Cross.”

He sent the serve wide instead, to Lopez’s forehand; the down-the-line return was measured to perfection, as he’d expected. Love-30.

“Andy,” Novak whispered, huddled close, as he prepared to serve again. “What are you doing?”

Andy inspected the three tennis balls in his hand; knocked one back to the ball boy. “I’m serving wide.”

Verdasco’s backhand return came back cross-court; Andy's volley hit the tape. Love-40. The crowd let out an almighty roar. He turned away, could feel Novak’s eyes watching him.

He dumped the first serve into the net. Breathed. Curled the second looping into Lopez’ backhand. Novak held his ground, angled the volley into the tramlines — Verdasco somehow got a racquet on it — Andy stretched for the backhand smash—

“OUT! Game, set, match: Spain. 6-4, 7-5, 6-3.”

 

* * *

 

They shook hands at the net, perfunctory. Polite. _Good game,_ said Verdasco. Lopez just held his gaze for a moment, lips quirking into a knowing smile. Andy said nothing.

Novak stumbled as they walked back to the bench, and Andy put out his arm without thinking, curling around Novak’s waist to support him, fingers splayed over bruising ribs. Novak sucked in a breath. Turned toward him, like it was the most natural thing, covering Andy’s hand with his own.

 

* * *

 

Of course, that _would_ be the photo to make it onto every blog and news site within the hour. _Andy Murray commiserates with compatriot Novak Djokovic following Great Britain’s loss to Spain in Davis Cup,_ or something like that. Andy didn’t make a habit of reading blogs.

Novak stared at his mobile screen for a moment longer. Sighed. He was sprawled across the bed again, but this time it was his own. Andy leaned against the wall, watching him.

“Well. Your hair is safe.” Novak tossed his phone aside. “And I was looking forward to cutting it.”

“There’s always next year. Though you should run it by Jamie this time. You'd be surprised how vain he gets about that sort of thing."

Novak started to laugh, then sobered up again. “I’m sorry. I let everyone down.”

“It’s not your fault.”

“No, but...” Novak had that funny look on his face again, like he didn’t know the words, or like Andy should already know them, however that was supposed to make sense. It tugged at something in his chest, a rush of vertigo.

“I promised,” he said when Novak didn’t go on. “Remember?”

“Yeah,” came the whispered response. “Hey, Andy?”

“Yeah?”

But Novak just looked at him. Stretched out his hand. Held it there, poised, until Andy lifted his own and let Novak curl tennis-calloused fingers around his wrist.

“Thanks,” said Novak. “Thanks, you know, for... Thanks.”

It was the way Novak looked at him: open, trusting, like he had no fear. Twelve years old, asthmatic, climbing trees, dreaming dreams. Winning trophies, standing atop the world. Spread across unslept sheets and all the sleepless miles from one tournament city to the next. And Andy knew, stumbled upon this a long time ago: in that moment, he could have asked — _told_ Novak to do anything, say anything, promise anything beneath the sky that was his to give, the way he’d given for country, for family, for love—

Except it wasn’t his to ask. Andy swallowed the words. Shrugged as he drew his hand back, snapping the fragile moment in two.

“Sure,” he said, and awkward was a sudden refuge. “Anyway, listen. I promised I’d meet Jamie, so.”

Novak curled his arm in around his chest. “Of course.”

“You’ll be all right?”

“I am. Go, Andy.”

It was the right thing to do, Andy told himself as he pulled the door shut. He stood in the hall a moment, waiting for this to pass. He could still feel Novak's hand on his wrist, a warmth faded to prickling cold and absence, and wondered if there was a word for what it really meant, _if_ it was meant, and why he should want this to mean anything at all.

 

* * *

 

Six to eight weeks, the doctors said, and Novak insisted: six. Eight weeks was just about enough time to put himself back together for the tour finals in London, the doctors told him; Novak pointed out that there was no point being whole if he wasn't also fit.

"You're an idiot," Andy informed him when Novak finished recounting the diagnosis of his back injury.

On the phone, Novak laughed at him. "Quiet, you, and listen. I am trying to tell you when I will see you again." There was a fondness in his voice that made Andy's gut squirm. "Basel. End of October. Yes?"

"You just get better first."

"I will," said Novak, and, "I promise," though Andy had never asked him for any such thing.

 

* * *

 

In Tokyo, he took the singles title by beating Rafa for the first time that year, and finally — _finally_ — something loosened in his chest. 

Winning the doubles, too, with Jamie, was just a bonus.

Jamie threw a tennis ball at his head when he said as much. "Yeah, sure, look down on us lowly doubles players, why don't you?" Andy caught the ball easily, tossed it back at him. "The mighty Andrew Murray," Jamie carried on in his most mocking voice. "Too good to play some honest tennis like the rest of us."

"I've been better than you since approximately ten years ago," Andy pointed out.

And ten years ago, that would've started a full-on fight between the two of them. Now, Jamie just rolled his eyes and packed up the rest of his things. It was good, Andy thought, that somewhere along the line he'd realized Jamie didn't actually hate him, as he'd once suspected as a child; Jamie just had some issues of his own to figure out.

Not that figuring it out had stopped Jamie from picking on him, for no other reason than innate annoying-older-brother-ness. 

"How's Novak doing?" Jamie asked out of nowhere.

Andy shouldered his own bag. "Um. Fine? He's recovering. The doctor said—"

"Six weeks, yeah, I heard. He needs to take better care of himself."

"Who's the mother hen now?"

"It's what big brothers do, didn't you know?" Jamie slung an arm around Andy's shoulder, making him stumble and stoop awkwardly because dammit, it'd been _more_ than ten years since he was short enough for Jamie to use him as a human armrest. "We look out for our baby brothers."

Andy glared at him; Jamie just kept on grinning.

 

* * *

 

In Basel, Novak greeted him with a grin and a hug, then spread his arms wide and turned in a circle like a girl showing off a brand new dress. Except he was wearing a practice kit, and it was already stained with sweat. 

"See?" said Novak. "Good as new."

"Great," Andy deadpanned. "Look forward to kicking your ass in the final."

Novak laughed, affection and defiance and something else underneath it all, something that neither of them had time to think about. 

"Come hit with me. Quick match. First to ten, yes? Loser gets to buy me dinner."

"Buy your own dinner."

"I will, if you win." Novak smiled at him, the way he always did. "Come," he said, and Andy went.

The court was empty when they got there, just the two of them, and Andy spent a minute protesting that they should get a coach or a physio or somebody just in case, keep an eye out.

He thought of Cordoba. 

Novak said, "I am not going to break, Andy," and sent a kick serve straight down the T. Andy barely got his racquet on it, deflecting the ball well wide.

Novak grinned, and prepared to serve again. 

He did seem better, Andy thought as he returned the serve and they settled into an easy rally, more strategy than strength. Novak was moving better, almost back to his form in the first half of the season. And he seemed happier. Not pretending to be, the way he did for cameras or reporters or his own family, but genuinely happier, the way he used to be, when they were younger.

Andy wondered when that had changed.

He stretched for a passing shot — rifled cross-court with the pin-point accuracy of Novak's best backhand — and felt a sharp twinge in his thigh. The ball caught on the edge of his racquet and stuttered into the net.

"9-8, Djokovic," Novak proclaimed, commentating for himself. He tossed a ball to Andy's side of the court. "What a passing shot that was. Oh yes. Now, if he breaks here, it will be all over for Murray."

"Shut it," Andy told him. He walked to the baseline. "And people say I'm bad about talking to myself on court."

"Quiet please," Novak intoned in an uncanny imitation of Mo Lahyani. "Quiet please. Mister Murray to ser— hey!"

Andy had sent him a short, underhand serve. Novak barely scrambled forward in time to send it back over — and even Andy couldn't miss a volley that easy. The ball bounced twice, thrice, and rolled demurely away.

"Nine all."

 

* * *

 

Later, after they'd ordered room service and bickered for a good half hour about what to watch while eating — Novak suggested a horror film; Andy pointed out that he always spilled something in fright, and he'd really prefer not to have marinara sauce all over his bedsheets, thanks — after they'd compromised on some black-and-white thriller with German subtitles, Novak said,

"Hey. After the season — after London — you going home first?"

"Yeah, sure. Could use a holiday."

"Not going somewhere warm?"

"Jamie's going." Andy made a face just thinking about it. "Think I'll pass on watching my brother make out with his girlfriend in public. Not enough therapy in the world, for that."

Novak laughed, and Andy turned to look at him. He'd completely lost track of what was happening in the film, anyway; something about coffee and existential angst, which apparently passed for thrilling in German filmmaking.

Novak wasn't even paying attention to the TV. "Hmm." He wriggled further into the pile of pillows — all of them — that he'd piled behind himself. His socked feet sprawled precariously close to their empty plates. Andy moved the plates to the side table. 

"Mare and Djole," said Novak, "they want to go visit our uncle for holiday. In Serbia. I think our mother will go with them."

"You're not going?"

"Why would I go?" Novak waved an airy hand, obviously meaning it to be joking. "We Brits — we prefer 'staycations', don't we?"

There was something sad in his voice that Andy didn't like. "If you say so."

Novak smiled at nothing in particular. "Can I tell you something?"

"Sure. What is it?"

"I still miss my home," said Novak, quiet as anything. "Though I've not been there much, ever since— I was always going so many places, you know? For tournaments, for training. For whatever. But Djordje — even to him, London is not home. And sometimes, I wonder if they understand..."

Novak trailed off, voice as small and guilty as when he'd confessed to Andy — in another city, on another night — _it hurts_.

"They'll understand," Andy heard himself say. "It's what brothers do."

Novak looked at him. "Yeah?"

"Yeah." Andy searched for something else to say. "You were looking out for them. Right? You told me that."

"You didn't believe me, I remember." Novak was smiling, though, some shadow gone from his eyes. "You said Jamie would never do that for you."

"I didn't say that," Andy lied, though he remembered, yes — that was something he'd once said. "Anyway, Jamie's not you."

Which was a fairly stupid thing to say. He felt his ears prickling, an uncomfortable heat that made his skin crawl. It didn't help, the way Novak was looking at him, like he'd said something wonderful instead of something completely obvious.

He picked up the remote and gestured at the TV. "Want to see if there's any football on?"

"Sure," said Novak, and let Andy flip through channel after channel, pausing every once in a while when a commercial looked like it might be promoting a sport-related event.

Somewhere in the middle of a volleyball replay, Novak rearranged his pillows so that Andy had a few cushions, too. 

A couple minutes after that, Novak put his head on Andy's shoulder. 

Andy let him.

 

* * *

 

For all that Novak was the one coming off a six-week injury break, it was Andy's body that failed him before tournament's end. Jamie sent him a text asking if he was all right. Andy told him to worry about his own ranking, to which Jamie responded with a rude emoji, so that at least was normalcy restored. 

Novak called to check on him; Andy lied that he had an early flight to catch, and _yeah, see you in London_.

In London, he did his press and sponsor events with a stoic face. He'd played through pain before, and god knew that other guys on tour had dealt with far, far worse. 

He thought about Novak, and tried to think of something else. 

That was a bit difficult, when Novak insisted on being noticed: on the courts, at events; asking Andy to hit with him, to have lunch with him; barnacling his way into shopping trips with Andy's mum (who was all-too eager to indulge him), hanging out in his hotel room, gossipping about other players, dreaming about next year, adding terrible movies to Andy's Netflix queue and smiling and smiling as if he had a secret joke to share — only, Andy never heard the punch line. 

In the end, he was almost relieved to withdraw from the tournament after a first-round loss to Ferrer.

 

* * *

 

There were times, on tour, when he worried that the dogs would forget him. Coming home always disabused him of the notion. Rusty nearly knocked him flat with an ill-advised leap at his chest, while Maggie huffed disapprovingly at her brother's display — then promptly shoved him out of the way to get at Andy. 

"Missed you, too," Andy grinned, ruffling her ears. Rusty tried to clamber into his lap again. "Both of you."

Maggie sniffed his shoes, sneezed, and chased Rusty into the house, paws clicking over wood and kitchen tile.

Three days, he'd told his mum and his entire team. He wanted three days to himself — after which they could start in on all the off-season planning and strategizing they liked, but until then, he was going home.

 _What, you got a secret girlfriend at home or something?_ Jamie asked when Andy told him he didn't want to be disturbed.

Andy almost said, _Sure, keep her locked in the closet during the season_ — except their mum chose that moment to walk in on their conversation, eyebrows raised.

His first day home was spent on laundry and trying to remember where everything was in a kitchen that he almost never used. Rusty kept getting underfoot, chasing a raggedy tennis ball that looked more like a sponge than a sphere at this point. But when Andy tried to get him a newer one, Rusty whined until Andy returned the original mauled toy.

He found tupperwares full of pasta in the fridge, with a note from his mum. He took the dogs for a walk before it got too dark. He ate in front of the TV, because he could — Maggie curled on the settee beside him, Rusty sprawled across his feet — and it wasn't peaceful, exactly, but it was something.

In the morning, Maggie woke him, nearly pushing him off his own bed in her impatience to be let outside. He did so, shivering at the late-November chill, and went to find a jumper before taking the dogs for a walk.

The sun was a wisp of light just breaking over the treetops when his phone rang. _Not even twenty-four hours,_ Andy thought sourly as he answered it without looking. His mum probably had a good reason for calling — she always did — but falling asleep last night, with only the dogs and the quiet and his own thoughts for company, he'd almost believed that he could have a couple days to get himself together before having to think about tennis — and all that came with it — again.

He lifted the phone to his ear. "Yeah, what is it?"

"So I had this plan to surprise you — you know, bearing gifts and everything — but now I'm here and you're not even home. Where are you?"

Maggie growled in annoyance as he came to a sudden stop, leash drawn tight. Rusty promptly began washing her disgruntled face.

Andy could see his own breath misting in the morning air. "Novak?"

"Obviously," came Novak's voice over the phone. "Did I wake you? I rang the doorbell, but I don't hear the dogs. Are you outside?"

"I'm— Yeah. Took them for a walk." He resumed walking before Maggie could tangle the leashes in her effort to get away from Rusty's slobbering. His brain felt as foggy as the morning. "You're here?"

"Well, no. Not where you are. I am in front of your house."

Andy bit his own lip before he could ask anything else stupid, like, _Why?_ He turned back on the path, ignoring both dogs' efforts to keep him on course; they'd hardly been the out of the house for five minutes. "I'll be right there."

Novak was, indeed, sitting on his front step. A large shopping bag sat next to him. Rusty began barking, his whole rump wagging along with his tail as he dashed forward; Maggie broke into a trot as well, and Andy half-tripped, half-ran the last few steps to his own house.

Novak laughed as the dogs swarmed him like a pair of scruffy, overly exuberant fans.

Andy took the moment of respite to gather himself. He felt about as unkempt as the dogs, wearing a jumper over yesterday's tracksuit bottoms, and wished that he'd thought to drag a comb through his hair before heading out.

Not that Novak hadn't seen him in worse states. Novak looked up at him now, smiling. "Hello."

"Hi." Andy tugged Rusty back a step so Novak could stand up. "What're you doing here?"

"Bringing you food and cheer." Novak lifted the shopping bag; the handles strained under its improbable weight. "Food in here. Cheer is all me."

Andy snorted at that, and Novak grinned. 

 

* * *

 

Novak took it upon himself to unpack the food and put it away, as if he were the one making preparations for a guest. Rusty followed Novak around the kitchen, getting underfoot, despite Andy's best efforts to distract him; apparently, Novak was more interesting than a raggedy tennis ball.

"They're full of energy today," Novak chuckled, after Rusty nearly tipped him into the fridge.

Andy ran a hand through his hair, before remembering he'd only just combed it. At least he was wearing proper clothes now. "Their walk was a bit short."

Right on cue, Maggie whined from the front door, where she'd been sitting ever since they got back.

Novak closed the fridge. "Let's take them for a real walk, then."

The earlier mist had melted into a cold, blue day by the time they set out again. Novak took Rusty. Maggie walked beside Andy with decidedly affected primness. His hand curled around a warm travel mug — because Novak had insisted on a hot beverage if they were going to be out in the cold, even though it'd been his idea to take the dogs out in the first place.

Andy had pointed out that he could just let the dogs into the yard. Novak gave him a patient look, over the coffee machine, and said, _That's not the point._

 _What_ is _the point?_ Andy didn't dare ask. Because then Novak might actually tell him why he'd come, spending one of his own precious days off to barge in on Andy's peace and quiet — and then Andy would also have to explain why he didn't mind.

Jamie would call him an idiot, probably. Jamie didn't have to know.

"It's nice here," Novak said, almost in a whisper, even though there was no one around on this wooded road. "I see why you would rather be home than the beach."

Andy shrugged. "I like the quiet."

"Yeah. It's really nice. I can't remember the last time I was by myself like this."

"I'm literally right here, you know."

"Not like that." The _you idiot_ part was heavily implied. As was — something else. Maybe. Andy watched Maggie nose curiously at a pile of pebbles. Novak said, "Remember when you showed me around Glasgow?"

"When you were worried your fanclub had made it all the way to the highlands?"

"My wonderful fans come from all walks of life," Novak said sagely. He grinned at the snort that Andy didn't quite manage to hide. "It was a fun day, wasn't it? I remember. And I didn't have much time to myself, after that. With everything." 

"Yeah," said Andy, because he didn't know what else to say.

"It feels like a long time ago."

"It _was_ a long time ago."

"You calling me an old man, old man?"

"You said it yourself," Andy informed him. He had to look away from the smile quirking Novak's lips. The sun was high in the sky now. They should head back soon. "Anyway, back then, it must've been when we were — what, eighteen?"

"Nineteen," said Novak — and, shit, of course he'd remember. That'd been right before the last time he played for Serbia. Andy mentally kicked himself. "I was a kid, you're right. And kids are supposed to be selfish. That is what I tell myself about my brothers, anyway."

"How're they doing?"

"Fine, fine." Novak made a dismissive gesture. Coffee sloshed in his travel mug. "I'm not talking about them. I just meant — I know these last few years. More than a few years, I guess. But I know it hasn't been easy for you. I want you to know I know that."

Their feet crunched over brown leaves, the quiet of winter and the dogs' wet snuffling. 

Finally, Andy said, "I feel like we've already had this fight."

Another pause.

Novak's voice was soft. "That's not what I am saying. Andy. Please." 

And it reminded him suddenly, breathlessly, of the way he'd once taken both Andy's hands in his own, pleading: _I meant it always._ Guilt was a festering thing, a taste like sour coffee. 

"I know," said Andy, not looking at him. "I know it's not been easy for you, either." He swallowed past the sick feeling. "And I'm sorry."

"For what?"

Andy almost laughed. He wondered if his smile looked as twisted as it felt. "You're really that determined to make me apologize for things one by one?"

"No. Andy." A touch on his elbow. Andy looked up to find Novak watching him with an odd expression. "I did not come here for— You don't owe me apologies. If anything, I should."

"It's not your fault I'm a disappointment to everyone."

"And it is not _your_ fault people are unreasonable." 

There was no mistaking it as anything but fondness: the tone in his voice, the way he looked at Andy. The fact that he was here at all, walking a scruffy border terrier, mittened hands curled around a travel mug.

Andy pretended to check on Maggie — who was waiting patiently for him to resume walking. He did so. Novak followed. 

"The thing is," Novak said, after a bit, "I don't want you to be upset at me again."

Andy blinked. He glanced at Novak, who met his eyes cautiously.

"Why the hell would you think that?"

"You avoiding me ever since Basel?" Novak shrugged when Andy continued to stare at him. "I thought — I don't know. If I did something wrong, you would tell me. Right?"

For a moment he didn't even know what to say, the absurdity of it all. 

"You didn't do anything wrong," he managed finally. " _Jesus_ , Nole. I know I was a right dick to you, a couple years back, and I still feel like shit about it most days. But it's never — it was never anything you did." Andy felt himself flushing, whether from guilt or something even less palatable, he didn't know. "I had my head up my arse, all right? I'm working on it."

He walked resolutely ahead, urging Maggie along — predictably, she veered away to examine a tree, pulling him to an abrupt halt instead. Rusty caught up in a few steps.

Andy watched the dogs, knowing Novak was right behind him, practically at his shoulder. The tree was huge for this part of the woods, stooping and bare-boughed in the cold. 

Rusty dug experimentally at an exposed root, then began gnawing at it.

"Oy," Andy said to the dog, "Rusty, cut it out."

"You'll hurt your teeth," Novak added. "Come on, boy." A crunch of leaves as he walked over, circling the tree to coax Rusty away. The dog bounded after him, tail wagging. 

Andy watched Novak duck under a low-hanging branch. He brushed it with his hand, absently, as if testing its sturdiness. Andy opened his mouth to say, _Don't even think about it_ — but Novak had already dropped his hand.

"Remember climbing trees in London?"

"You mean remember when you nearly broke your neck?"

Novak scoffed at the idea. "My neck was perfectly safe, thank you very much." He glanced at Andy. "Anyway, you were watching for me."

"Somebody had to."

"You worry too much."

"Like I said."

"You always do that, you know." Novak leaned against the tree, watching him in turn. "You worry about me. Even when I am fine."

Andy shrugged. "Yeah, well." Maggie tugged on her leash impatiently, wanting to go look at what Rusty was digging up. Andy let her pull him closer to the tree. 

Novak finished the last of his coffee, making a face at the taste of the grinds at the bottom. "Yuck."

"You can have mine."

"No, I'm good."

"Sure? You look cold."

"You're doing it again," Novak said mildly. "Why do you always do that?"

"I don't know. Why do you keep getting yourself into scrapes?"

"I do not."

"How's your back?"

"Fuck you, is how," said Novak, laughing, a dog leash curled around his wrist and fondness wrapped in his gaze. And Andy would be lying if he pretended he didn't feel the same. 

Andy asked, "Why'd you come here today?"

Novak watched him, smiling, serious. "Why do you always worry about me?"

"I don't know."

Novak tugged gently on Andy's sleeve, as if drawing him closer for childish conspiracies. "Can I guess?"

It was less a tug than a caress, really. Not that it mattered. "All right," said Andy.

Novak kissed him.

His lips were chapped, and he smelled of winter and wool and slightly-burnt coffee. _Glad I brushed my teeth,_ was Andy's first inane thought. Then Novak's hand was on his hip, warm and uncertain and demanding all at the same time — and wasn't that just like Novak, who was all those things and more? 

He drew a shaky breath when Novak pulled away, searching his face for something, some answer to a question that was no more than a whisper: "Yes?"

It could have meant a thousand different things, a thousand different questions; still, there was only one answer.

"Yeah," said Andy, and pulled him back in for another.

 

* * *

 

On August 5th, 2012, Andy Murray won the men's singles gold medal at the London Olympics, defeating Roger Federer 6-2, 6-1, 6-4.

Centre Court rose as one, a roar that split the summer blue sky. Down on the grass-worn court, Andy lifted his face from his hands, blinking away motes of dust and light. He looked to the sky, then to his box, where — alongside his coach, his friends, and his mother — stood Novak Djokovic.

Just the day before, the two of them had narrowly defeated Benneteau and Gasquet to capture the bronze medal for Great Britain. An endlessly nerve-wracking performance, commentators and fans alike agreed: neither Djokovic nor Murray was a natural doubles player, and they amplified each other's weaknesses as often as they played to one another's strengths. At the start of the tournament, no one could say if they would even make it past the first round.

Somehow they found a way, if only through sheer bloodyminded stubbornness.

 _Novak really supported me these last two weeks,_ said Murray, who came into the Olympics on the back of a crushing loss to Federer at the Wimbledon Championships, not one month prior. _We've always had a bit of a rivalry, but we're also friends. So having him around, being here as teammates, it's been really special._

Anyone watching on Sunday could tell that the sentiment was obviously mutual, as Murray climbed from the dusty court into the stands, into the embrace of his team — Jez, Dani, Ivan — Jamie, his mum — and Novak, who'd insisted on being here as well.

Never mind that he'd lost his own match earlier in the day. Never mind that Federer's wife kept throwing him curious glances from their adjacent box. Never mind any of that, because there was Andy — victorious, golden — and Novak wouldn't have traded it for the world.

The cameras, zoomed in on Judy Murray's misty-eyed look of pride, missed the fierce smile on his face and the split second that Andy allowed himself to linger, Novak's arms around him, the crowd's cheering loud in both their ears.


End file.
